


you're killing it, buddy!

by badwrites



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Body Horror, Dreams, Extreme Gore, Gore, Gun Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Skull Fucking, tl;dr technically consensual dream gorefucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 18:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20278141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwrites/pseuds/badwrites
Summary: Butcher's dreams have been kind of a mess, lately.





	you're killing it, buddy!

Becca's smile never faces from his mind, even after all these years of absence.

She might be dead and gone, and dead and gone in a way that was probably fucking horrible, makes his gut wrench and blood boil, but she's _always_ there in his dreams.

They're in bed, rolling around and enjoying each other as the light of dawn warms the sheets, their skin.

They're comfortably lounging in each other's arms on the couch, laughing as they debate which band would be worse torture to have on loop for a week, Smash Mouth or Nickelback?

They're late at the movies. Sometimes they're alone in the seats and guffawing at some trite shitty summer blockbuster. Sometimes, they're digging their fingers into seats and shoving popcorn in their mouths to a gory horror flick. Sometimes, Becca's thumb wipes at the corner eye at a particularly emotional moment, and he bats it away, smiling teary-eyed (but pretending not to be).

Either way, Becca haunts him for _years_. He wakes up almost every morning heartbroken and angry, and reaffirmed in his quest to fucking make things right and punish the motherfucker -- no, all the bastards who did this, were complicit.

No matter the harrowing shit that's happened to him the previous night, no matter how badly he's fucked up, even when he gets people who matter _killed_: Billy Butcher is driven by his dreams. They bring him back on course. Becca's memory does.

It's not to say he doesn't have other dreams; Butcher definitely does. But they're minor, forgettable. Inoffensive, usually.

* * *

Until they're not. And the ones that aren't (meaning, are offensive, and _really_ offensive) are increasing in frequency.

He reckons it might've been at getting the team together, getting that tantalizing taste of blood and hope at fucking up the supes. Brain is all jumbled up and hyped up on that red mist, or whatever. It's fucking up his head.

It's fucking up his dreams.

One: They're violent. That's fine in itself; he thrives on it, has gotten used to the splatter of people's bits on his skin, the metallic smell of insides and fluids wafting in the air around gunsmoke. No biggie.

Two: They're violent towards _him_. That's a problem. It would be one thing if he was being hammered with dreams of murdering those assholes who he's already trying to murder in life. Hell, it'd be wish fulfillment. It's another thing when it's his body hitting the ground, and them standing high-and-mighty above him. Fuck that.

(He doesn't even die, just writhes around in dream bits until he wakes up shortly after, annoyed and shaken.)

Three, the worst one: A good portion of those fuck-me-up nightmares of his are about the fucking golden boy, that sociopath with the shit-eating grin that graces every fucking TV he passes by, the -- completely inhuman _monster_ that took Becca away. Homelander.

Homelander is now splattering his guts on the wall and the floor and every available surface in a good third of Butcher's dreams. Maybe that doesn't bode well for his future where, y'know, he's gonna actually attempt to kill him in person.

But at least he wakes up perturbed and full of hate and hopped up on the act of violence and can use it better than the sopping, heavy self-pity he gets when he wakes up after dreaming about (his love long-lost, irreplaceable) Becca.

* * *

Yeah, maybe he's a bit snappier after waking up from one of those. One occasion:

_He presses a Desert Eagle into Homelander's cheek, and presses the trigger. Should've known that it wouldn't penetrate even the top layer of that skin; it ricochets, still inside the barrel, and backfires._

_The pistol, and its loaded rounds, explodes in Butcher's hand. He goes deaf in a split second. There's a shower of shards of his radius and ulna and the veins flaying out in all directions like a plugged TV being thrown off the rooftop. It's followed by the wet little mist of the soft tissue around it being blown off to the jutting grisly joint of his elbow._

_Homelander smiles, and patiently lets him splatter on him until the last pieces have settled. Then, he puts a hand on his stunned face, and effortlessly pushes him over._

"Butcher? Butcher -- are you alright, my friend?" tentatively asks Frenchie, carefully shaking him out of his spaced-out state by the shoulder.

Butcher blinks, catches up to where they are. In the van, Mother's Milk is in the front seat bobbing is head to fucking... Bach? Liszt? One of those wrinkly dead classical assholes, anyway. Immediately, his hand snaps up, grabs at Frenchie's wrist, and rips it off of him.

Keeps a hold on it, constricting his fingers hard around it. Leans in, and tells him: "Where are your fucking manners, Frenchie? You touch me without my permission, and I'll make you regret it."

Frenchie is startled only for a second, but then he smiles, bares his teeth as a sharp white threat. His other hand reaches for his pocket, Butcher can see. He hisses, "if your head keeps staying in the clouds all day, I'm going to pull you back down."

MM's voice rings out, clear as day. "What's going on back there?" His eyes are visible in his rear-view mirror, brow heavy and critical.

On the spot, Butcher releases Frenchie, and Frenchie stops reaching for that tiny, baby-sized knife in his pocket. Smile tightly, and shake their heads.

Butcher does his best to ignore it when he can hear Frenchie muttering under his breath: "_Va te faire enculer_, crazy asshole. Fucking bitch-ass _dégénéré_..."

* * *

So, other than that, he uses his bad mood to the fullest advantage:

_For whatever reason, Butcher charges at Homelander with a revving chainsaw._

_Unsurprisingly, he ends up crawling away from him with his hands, a trail of unweaving entrails dragging loosely where his lower body should be. He can hear Homelander chuckle with amusement, and then get silent as he gets bored._

_Then, Butcher has his skull crushed under Homelander's boot, a single hard stomp to his noggin._

_One eye bursts immediately under his heel. The other pops out almost comically, being dragged up by Homelander lifting his foot and dangling by its optical nerve._

_Annoyed, he shakes it off. It bounces wetly off pavement._

Filled with adrenaline, he's got his trusty Smith & Wesson pointed threateningly at the group of panicking V-dealers as his other arm curls around their buddy's neck.

The Female, the completely feral probably-Japanese woman-shaped _animal_ that Frenchie is convinced that he's taming, is the one that scatters them (and Butcher won't admit it, he's glad she's on their side, at least for now). She's a silent fury until she pounces on one of their backs, and then turns into a fingernail-based wood-chipper and he's screaming as she literally claws his _entire_ face off with a single swipe, and then they're all yelling in alarm as the scene descends into fun chaos.

The pop of his gun in his ears would be painful if it wasn't accompanied by a splatter of skull on his face and face on his arm, and the sagging of some asshole trafficker in his arms. Drops him like a hot potato, then drops the remainder (the one who manages to begin to flee from the death sentence that is Kimiko) via a bullet fired through the back of the brain.

In the end, the Female might have got him 4:2, but he's still happily humming around and nudging the bodies with the toe of his boot all the same while she warily scouts the other rooms.

Call it productivity, what he gets from these new (kind of awful, humiliating, agitating) dreams.

* * *

_Homelander shoves Butcher away with a single hand too easily, like batting a fly._

_Really shoves him away. Shoves him flying, most of him._

_It's his skeleton that hovers in place, just for a moment._

_The rest of his tissue splatters from his bones behind him. It makes a wet, person-shaped dripping smear of anatomy-book muscle on the wall._

_Then his skeleton crumbles to the floor, relatively bone (ha!) dry._

Hughie is _screaming_, uselessly, at the top of his lungs as he ducks bullets from some private-mercinary-swat-uniform asshole spraying the room with bullets from some ritzy futuristic assault rifle.

Not that he's wielding it with any semblance of accuracy. And he's not looking behind him when Butcher presses a shotgun to the back of his neck, and basically beheads him with a single blast. Basically meaning only almost, as his head is hanging by a good bit of tissue-y bits on one side of that blown-out spinal cord.

Quickly, the weight of that thick helmet-flanked skull sags, then tears the rest off with a _thump!_ as it hits the ground.

Hughie stops yelling his head off in favor of going, "oh my god, oh my god, oh my _god_," and then bending over to retch.

Eh. The kid will get used to it.

* * *

_Fuck lasers._

_He's basically turned into Swiss cheese by Homelander zapping him in short bursts, leaving these smoking little paired holes through his body._

_As Butcher sags, Homelander can look through a few of them. There's nothing interesting behind him, just the wall, but his insides pulse hotly in-between that space._

_Then, sticks a finger, two, in. One in his belly, and another one in his ribcage. He wiggles them around, experimentally._

_Squelch squelch._

This minor independent supe -- fucking, Candle or Flame or Flicker or some other minimal flame-related single-word name -- is _too_ easy. Easy to ambush, conspicuously stalking sex workers at 2AM with a glowing hoodie on. Basically a beacon.

He holds his breath for a while, sure, but with MM and Frenchie holding his arms and legs and Butcher holding his neck, that literally flaming Guy Fieri-esque hair goes out awful quick in a nice bath of cold water.

* * *

_Homelander leans in, and peels the upper layer of his face away using the pinched fingernails of his thumb and forefinger._

_The separated, slick, red sheets of muscle on Butcher's face are exposed. Homelander would tear them off in pieces from the bone like strings of a fucking Twizzler (or a Red Vine, if you really don't have a choice)._

_Maybe he'd use his teeth. Maybe he'd chew a little on the chunks, and spit them out in exaggerated but feigned disgust._

_As if he wouldn't love that depraved shit; they both know it._

These dreams are turning from infuriating and self-punishing to something more uncomfortable.

And Butcher's more and more irritable, and punctuating more sentences with _stupid fucking cunt_ than ever, and he's gotten into the nasty habit of breaking things.

Frenchie has to hold (well, stand in the way of) The Female back when Butcher angrily throws a full bottle at the TV. Good thing it just shatters on it and blips it out; he's fairly sure she might've tried to kill him if he really bricked the thing.

Not that he'd mind that, apparently, if he judged by the content of his dreams nowadays.

* * *

_They wouldn't be able to kill Homelander like they killed Translucent, no. Couldn't shove explosives or a machine gun or something up his ass and hoping for the best._

_He's invulnerable all over, like Jesus would be if Jesus was actually like his good old dad and not a reincarnating muppet who brewed wine in his spare time._

_No, Homelander would definitely get a kick out of shoving something up his ass, though. The barrel of an M27, turn it around on Butcher. He'd laugh at how easy it would be to shove it through his clothes._

_He'd probably only partially get it in his asshole. He's more likely to miss a bit on the side, tear a new one adjacent._

_Homelander wouldn't miss a beat before pulling the trigger and unloading the entire clip into him._

_Actually, maybe he'd stop. Stop, expecting Butcher to beg him not to, to beg him to let him go._

_Butcher wouldn't fucking beg. He'd grit his teeth and open his legs and say: "Do it, you dumb blonde fucking cunt. I fucking dare you, fucking open me up. I know you'd get off on it, you fucking sicko."_

_Homelander would grin those perfect fucking white teeth as he would yank down on the trigger. He'd watch Butcher's body shake, whole body quaking from the pounding of the bullets -- shake like Homelander probably fucking was when he was a baby._

_Maybe Butcher's body would soak it up like a sponge, his body turning into a pink-red jello from his ass into his thoracic cavity. Maybe the bullets would cut straight through him like butter, up to his head and out of the crown of his skull._

_When the clip is empty, Homelander would probably cradle the butt of the gun. Then, effortlessly shove the rest into his body. His body would crack in two with the force, starting with his pelvis and then up to his torso._

_It's a dream and so it doesn't fucking matter that Butcher is laughing hysterically, as this all happens. Defiant still. There are no lungs for him to speak, technically, and his jaw and vocal cords are basically pulverized._

_ Butcher is spewing chunks on himself as he's chanting, ranting, foaming red at the mouth he doesn't have anymore: "Keep going. Fuck you, cunt, keep fucking going. I know you fucking want to. Fuck me up."_

Butcher wakes, heart hammering in his chest like an asthmatic fifty year-old diabetic running a marathon and hair plastered to his forehead, shivering in cold sweat.

That one was particularly bad. _Fuck_.

Lies there, uselessly as he tries to catch his breath, wipe the sweat off his brow. What a fucking nightmare that was.

Cranes his head up, groggily shakes his phone next to his bed (his go-to smartphone, data-less and unregistered).

It's 4:13 AM. He's gotta decide whether he wants to wake up now, or go to sleep and possibly descend into another clusterfuck dream that'll leave him even more fucked up. Great.

Room is dark, he's alone in the apartment. Didn't wake up to any noise, apparently, not some secret raid in the night. Looks down, and rolls his eyes as he spots his own morning wood.

Thanks, body, for affirming that he's as disgusting as he thinks he is.

The cogs in Butcher's head whirl. As cold as his skin is, there's a heat under it. And he's bored, and has some time to kill.

Fuck it. He'll judge himself later. Lets his fucked up imagination roam, as he throws his sheets off and pulls his boxers off with a raise of his hips.

_Starting off where they ended, but Homelander is naked this time because he's a perverted fucking cunt rapist who gets off to this shit, anyway._

_There's not so much as a pimple on that perfectly tanned muscular round ass. His shoulders are ridiculous, sculpted like Arnold in his heyday but not like the horrific mutants modern bodybuilders are. His chiseled abs are made for the cover of GQ or whatever homoerotic not-quite-gay-porn men's magazine._

_His veiny perfectly vascular forearms would fist into the loose mush of bone, connective tissue and red gunk that's between Butcher's flailing legs._

He sucks the saliva in his mouth, and throat, and horks it into his hand. Reaches down to palm his hard dick, lazily at first. Presses the back of his head into his pillow, and closes his eyes.

_Homelander would carelessly rip the massive rifle out of him at this point._

_Not from where it came from, that would be too mild. He'd rip it in its entirety out the front, tearing open his chest and belly and pelvis._

_If Butcher still has his dick or any of his ribs intact, they're definitely gone now. They'd mostly shower down around the two of them, in little red fleshy-bony flakes._

_All-American and midwestern, that man, hair dotted in reddish-pinkish snow._

_The rifle would clatter to the side, and Homelander would take the space that it left with his own body._

_He would lie on him, lie in him, bathe himself in butcher's guts as he goes all missionary and prone on him._

_That's disgusting_, he thinks. He's still hard. "I'm fucking disgusting," he mutters aloud. Now slowly grabbing, squeezing his dick more confidently. _Really_ punishes himself with a good clench of his hand.

_Homelander's perfect fucking face would be nosing whats left of his own, sucking at the broken pieces of his fractured jawline._

_His perfect fucking chest wouldn't be scratched at all from the jutting little fractured bone of Butcher's ribs._

_He'd breathe, fucking dreamily, as his perfect fucking dick would slide in the warm, wet mess where Butcher's ass and dick used to be._

Butcher speeds up his hand, begins to turn his head side-to-side, arch as he thinks about being used like person-flavored jam on toast. Toes curl at the thought of being obliterated.

He's fucked up. Well, at least he's trying to cope.

_Homelander would get bored eventually, he probably has the attention span of a fucking goldfish._

_Probably would at that point crawl up his somehow still-twitching still-steaming body to shove his cock in his face. Yeah. Literally._

_If Butcher still had eyes at this point, Homelander would hook his fingers in one, spooning the goopy, slimy mess of it up to his knuckle._

_He'd slide the head of his dick in the other. Then he'd leisurely fuck his way through it, into his brain cavity._

_Anatomically impossible_, the more rational part of his brain chimes in. _Shut the fuck up_, goes the caveman bit.

_Homelander can break his ocular orbit with a lazy thrust of his hips. Why? Because he's fucking him, and he's super-powered, and he can technically do it. And then he'd be able to fuck his skull._

_That's more believable_, the more rational part of his brain goes.

Anyway, at this point his stomach is turning with the gratuity, and it's not particularly sexy, but he's stroking himself at a quick pace and just wants to get it over with.

_Homelander would come in his soft, slimy grey matter. Hard enough for his cum to shoot through the back of Butcher's head like a bullet._

_Then, he'd pat what used to be Butcher's face in one of his good-job-champ-you-did-it posturing he always does. That's the real asshole move, here._

_Tissue and bone and blood and semen would mix pink at the side of Butcher's flattened head, and drip to the ground to make a mess like a puddle of melted strawberry ice cream with white chocolate chunks._

_Homelander would probably just cheerfully pull his dick free, stand up, and walk away whistling like he just had a cone in the park._

Butcher comes suddenly in his hand with a bite of his cheek, a stifled little groan from his throat, a kick of his legs.

Wipes his semen on his own sheets. Opens his eyes, and looks up at the ceiling. Thinks: Maybe I _should_ get a psychiatrist.

And then thinks, nah, fuck that, he's fine. Stands up from his bed, throws the same pair of underwear back on, and he's on his merry way for an early start to his day because he'll be damned if he thinks too hard about what fantasy he just voluntarily jacked off to.


End file.
